


we rarely practice discern

by returnsandreturns



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Fake Funeral, Future Fic, Insurance Fraud, Multi, fake death, quickass writing practice tbh
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-27
Updated: 2015-03-27
Packaged: 2018-03-19 19:57:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,959
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3622299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/returnsandreturns/pseuds/returnsandreturns
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“Nobody’s shooting anybody,” Fiona calls, from upstairs. “This is good old-fashioned, honest fraud.” </p><p>“Y’know,” Mickey says, “we could actually off Frank. Then you could collect the cash and not even be committing a crime.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	we rarely practice discern

**Author's Note:**

> I JUST WANTED TO PRACTICE WRITING ENSEMBLE FIC SO THIS IS ILL-THOUGHT-OUT AND SHORT. I might do something better with it eventually once S5 is done and all my downloads of it actually finish. 
> 
> This is set sometime in the future. Debbie’s in college and, like, at least a little bi, Carl’s almost practically eligible to graduate high school this year, Lip’s at Caltech doing a Masters degree, and Ian and Mickey are an old married couple because I want all these motherfuckers to be happy for once.

The phone rings a few minutes after the kids have all left for school—Debs dropping off Liam at the elementary school before her morning classes at U of C, Carl hopefully ending up at least near the high school—when Fiona’s trying to get her lunch ready so she can make it to work on time. She shifts around, holding the phone between her ear and shoulder.

“May I please speak to Fiona Gallagher?” the lady on the other line asks.

“You got her,” Fiona says.

“Ms. Gallagher, I’m calling from Capital Trust Insurance. We wanted to express our condolences over the loss of your father and verify some details about his life insurance policy.” 

Fiona stares at her phone then slowly turns to look at Frank, who’s eating a bowl of Wheaties with a beer he didn’t pay for and looking back at her with wide eyes. She says, slowly, in a pale imitation of her customer service voice, “Would you hold for just one moment?” 

“Who’s on the phone?” Frank asks, through a mouthful of cereal.

“A nice lady who’s offering condolences on your death,” Fiona says, muting the line. “Which would be a great way to start my morning if you were, in fact, actually dead.”

“I’ve got something big going down, Fiona,” Frank says, standing up and pacing towards her, spoon clattering where he drops it in the bowl. “Big. Play along and I’ll cut you in on the profits.” 

“You mean help you commit insurance fraud and you’ll continue to tell me you owe me until you actually die?” Fiona says. “Fuck, no, Frank. You’re asking to get caught here and I’m not gonna let you take us down with you. Again.” 

“Just pretend like you don’t know anything about it, then,” Frank shoots back. “Say you haven’t seen me and weren’t aware of my death. The money’s coming to you anyway. I’ll disappear for awhile.” 

“When did you even set up a life insurance policy?” she asks. “Why do they think you’re dead?”

“Ten years ago,” he replies, grinning. “It’s the long con. And don’t worry about the details, I’ve got it covered. Just reap the benefits, daughter mine.” 

Fiona glares at him. She glares at him for approximately fifteen seconds before she asks, because she hates herself but is also starkly aware of the fact that Frank bounces back always, regardless of the stupid shit he pulls, “. . .what exactly are the benefits?” 

Frank’s grin grows wider.

*

Lip answers the phone on the second ring. 

“Yo,” he says.

“Frank’s dead,” Fiona says. 

“Fucking finally,” Lip replies.

“Okay, he’s not actually dead, but for the purposes of a hare-brained insurance fraud scheme, he’s six feet under, probably in a debtor’s cemetery outside city limits,” she continues. 

Lip pauses. There’s a clatter and the sound of a door opening and shutting and then he’s hissing, “Seriously, Fee? Do you really want to get arrested again? Did you develop some kind of prison fetish the last time around?” 

“We’re the estranged family,” Fiona says. “If Frank shows up alive one day, we’ll say we knew nothing about it and he’ll get dragged off to rot in jail.”

“Frank doesn’t go to jail,” Lip says, slowly. “Other people go to jail because of him. Like you. Frank took all the luck in our family, that shit’s not heriditary.” 

“. . .you’re right, this is fucking dumb,” Fiona says, letting out a long breath. She knew it was dumb from the beginning. It’s just—money. She’s done a whole hell of a lot of dumb things for money and it’s not like she’s just going to stop. 

“How much exactly were you risking your livelihood to make?” Lip asks. 

“300k,” she replies. Who the fuck even thought to give Frank Gallagher a life insurance policy, nevertheless one worth over a quarter mill is beyond her, but it’s not the most ridiculous plan he’s ever come up with. Lay low until everything blows over, show his face again and hope everybody somehow forgets or plays along. It won’t take a lot, with his record, to convince someone who doesn’t know Frank that he’s actually dead this time.

“Three hundred—“ Lip says, sounding like he’s choking. “Three hundred thousand?” 

Fiona pauses for a long moment.

“. . .wanna come to a funeral?” she asks. 

*

“Déjà vu,” Debbie says, standing in the living room and staring at an empty coffin. She’s holding hands with a blonde girl, Emmy. She’s a Junior English major at U of C and Debbie met her at a book club and they’re very happy. Debbie has repeated this to every family member and neighbor she’s seen so far today, because even though she’s already come out to most of them as not-so-straight, she’s sort of proud to be the only one with a functioning relationship in her family, besides Ian—but his relationship involves a Milkovich, so that’s kind of in question, too.

(When Frank saw them earlier, he said, almost wistfully, “I guess the Gallagher queer strain’s about as strong as the alcoholic strain. May you muff dive happily into your futures.”) 

“Are fake funerals another Gallagher tradition?” Emmy asks.

“You told her he’s not actually dead?” Carl asks. He steps forward to meet Emmy’s eyes. “You a narc?” 

Emmy glares back.

“I don’t know what that means, but no,” she says. Debbie squeezes her hand, smiling fondly.

“Emmy’s legit,” she says.

“Nobody else tells anybody outside the family,” Carl says, pointing around the room. “Jesus, it’s like none of you have ever run a scam before.” 

From the kitchen table, where’s he sitting smoking a joint and judging them, Mickey says, “I’m not in your fucking family, why do I have to be involved in this?” 

“You are in this fucking family, asshole,” Ian says, cuffing him gently on the head as he passes by with an armful of flowers that they cut from a few front yards in Lincoln Park. He throws a daisy at Mickey who flips him off but holds onto it, twirling it in his fingers.

“Plus, we need someone who can shoot bitches if things go south,” Carl says. Mickey raises his eyebrows, then acquiesces, nodding agreement. 

“Nobody’s shooting anybody,” Fiona calls, from upstairs. “This is good old-fashioned, honest fraud.” 

“Y’know,” Mickey says, “we could actually off Frank. Then you could collect the cash and not even be committing a crime.” 

“Uh, murder,” Ian points out, dropping the flowers in a bucket by the door and boosting himself up to sit on the table next to him. He takes the daisy and tucks it behind Mickey’s ear. Mickey just lets him, because Mickey’s softened in his old age. That or he’s just stopped giving a fuck.

“Nobody in this fuckin’ city’s gonna convict you for killing Frank Gallagher,” Mickey says. “It’d be a goddamn public service.” 

From the stairs, Frank says, “I thought I said no Milkoviches. It was my final request before I become worm food.” 

“He’s a Gallagher,” Ian jokes, leaning sideways into Mickey’s shoulder. “He took my last name.”

“Fuck no, I didn’t,” Mickey says. “Think I wanna be Gallagher? Nah, I’m getting out of here when you fuckers go to jail for this. The cops have no way to connect me to this shit.” 

“Could probably get some of my DNA off you, after last night,” Ian murmurs, smiling sideways at him, and Carl groans and throws one of Liam’s errant shoes at him. 

“Enough about your homosexual liaisons,” Frank says. “Do I look dead enough?”

He’s dressed in the suit that Carl went to prom in, face made paler by makeup. 

“You always look dead,” Debbie replies.

“Good,” Frank says, straightening his collar. “Let’s do this.” 

*

Lip comes in five minutes after they were supposed to start, wearing a black t-shirt and dark jeans. He says, “Sorry, late flight,” and moves to stand next to Fiona, wrapping an arm around her waist.

“You know,” he whispers in her ear, a few minutes later, “This tableu you’ve got set up here is actually pretty impressive.” 

Flowers everywhere that Debbie put together to look like people actually sent them, pictures of Frank that they took the day before, Ian fake crying into Mickey’s neck. It’s not bad. Frank definitely looks like he croaked a few days ago, stiff in the casket.

“Horse tranquilizers again?” Lip asks. 

“Enough to kill an actual horse,” she replies. “We figured if he actually dies, well. . .we’ve already got the shit ready.” 

“Smart.” 

After a few of the guys from the Alibi share their best Frank stories, Vee sings “Ave Maria” in the background, subtly looking at the words written on her arm, and the insurance agent stands with his arms folded and his back to the staircase.

When Vee is finished, Carl steps forward to stand in front of them. 

“What can you say about Frank?” he says, in his bullshit respectable voice that occasionally people actually fall for and that helps him sell drugs to rich people. “He was my dad. I have to grow up without a dad now. Nobody to play catch with, to take me bowling, to give me my first taste of beer.” 

“Jesus,” Fiona whispers.

“He’s fuckin’ grown up already,” Lip whispers back. He makes a tone it down motion at Carl. 

“Uh. . .” Carl falters, then pretends to break into tears, collapsing onto the sofa. There’s a long silence, and then Kevin steps forward, arms up and palms raised. 

“Frank Gallagher was a crazy son of a bitch,” he says, “and he will be missed. Please join the grieving family in the kitchen for various finger foods and booze.”

Fiona rushes over to talk to the agent while everyone streams out of the room. 

“Sorry this is so, uh, unorthodox,” she says. “Frank was. . .complicated.” 

“From what I’ve heard about him, that’s understandable,” he replies. “We normally don’t come out for funerals, but, with Mr. Gallagher’s record. . .well, we thought we’d just make sure.” 

“I fully understand,” Fiona says. 

“I’ll leave you to it, though,” he continues. “Sorry for your loss. We’ll be in touch about his life insurance within the next few weeks.” 

They congregate at the window to watch as he gets in his sensible car and drives away, silent until Fiona turns around, raises her arms with a grin and says, “Let’s get fucking drunk, assholes!”

Frank stirs quietly in his casket as Carl turns on the stereo and Lip grabs Debbie in a hug, saying, “We’re actually gonna be able to pay off all our student loans if we don’t get sent straight to prison for this, Debs.” 

“Dying’s the best thing Frank’s ever done for us,” she says, hugging him back then pulling her girlfriend in to join them.

Mickey says, “I’m just gonna reiterate the fact that we could actually kill him right now and get away with it.” 

“We’re deadbeats and criminals, not murderers,” Ian says, kissing him on the mouth before tugging him into the kitchen after him. Kevin and Vee are dancing together, and Fiona is standing by the coffin, smiling down at Frank. 

“I’m just glad we don’t have to bury anything this time,” she says, then accepts the hand that Lip offers as he pulls her forward into an awkward waltz, the music so loud that the windows are starting to rattle and not just the broken ones. If they get away with this, everything might be starting to look up, for the hundred-fucking-thousandth time. The if is still pretty big, but Debbie’s never looked happier and Liam’s riding around on Mickey’s shoulders and everything feels okay.

It might not feel so great when Frank wakes up again, but they’ll deal with that when it happens.

**Author's Note:**

> detectivekatebishop on tumblr. send me prompts and stuff, i guess


End file.
